


Blood Ties

by Little_Lat



Series: Blood Ties [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brotherhood, Dark Past, F/M, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Kidnapping, Revenge, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Athos wakes up, complete with a screaming hangover and tied to a chair, he can't help but hope it's some elaborate joke courtesy of the madmen he calls friends. But as events unfold and take a darker turn Athos realises his kidnapping was no random act of criminality. Someone planned his abduction, is out for revenge and will stop at nothing until he gets it. Modern AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you love my first foray into the world of Musketeers AU! All feedback, comments, criticisms are welcome!
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3 ^^

This, Athos decided as his chin lulled against heavily against chest, was the worst hangover he had ever experienced. The current thump in his head, razorblades in his throat and ache in his core were currently beating out every single morning after the night before he could pull to memory. That included being awoken by an ice bucket to the face, the morning after his military unit had celebrated passing their basic training and he’d fallen asleep against the _outside_ of his barracks. Before that current moment, Athos would have sworn a worse morning would have been impossible.

Last night must have been something truly remarkable, since the whole night was one big blank. He was 36 for Christ’s sake. 36 was too old for such behaviour.

A low groan rumbled from deep in his chest, his hair plastered to his sweat slick forehead. His hand jerked, wanting to scrub at least the top layer of grim from his face, but all he was met with was sharp pain from his wrists.

What the hell?

Athos wrenched his hand again, growling in frustration as the same pain erupted again. His eyes cracked open, eliciting a curse as the artificial light burned his tired eyes. He tried again, this time squinting down his body.

His hands were tied down tightly to the metal chair Athos was only just realising he was sat in.

“What the…” His hands balled into fists as Athos jerked his arms. The knots didn’t budge. The actions were repeated with his legs and, although Athos couldn’t see them, he was willing to bet they had received the same treatment.

Athos briefly wondered if this was some elaborate joke curtesy of Aramis in retaliation for some preserved slight he cannot even remember, but the current situation seemed a bit far even for the sharpshooting mad man.

His eyes glanced up and, attempting to minimise the wince from the sharp pain in his retinas, he squinted and began to take stock of the room around him.

Stone floor, concreate walls, two cheap strips of artificial lighting hung over head with a constant buzz and a heavy looking door judging by the substantial sized hinges bracketing it to the wall. There was one key hole, Athos noted, although there could easily be more latches on the other side.

A creak of furniture sent every one of nerve endings into overdrive, hangover be damned. His ears strained, as feet hit the ground somewhere over his right shoulder.

“Who’s there?” Athos’ voice cracked from his dry throat, resisting the urge to cough.

Footsteps reverberated on the stone floor as Athos stiffened, refusing to crane his neck in an effort to see.

“Yes sir,” The French words came from behind him. French, for sure, but the accent wasn’t native. Athos couldn’t pin it down exactly. He had never been much of a linguist; that was Aramis’ department. Eastern European maybe? He couldn’t be sure.

“He’s awake.” A man, tall and lean stepped into Athos’ sphere of vision. His was dressed in black jeans and an equally dark snug t-shirt. Athos noted that, although thin, his arms were toned and strong, the short sleeves clinging to well-defined biceps. Underestimating him due to his sheer lack of bulk would be a mistake.

They couldn’t all look like the wall of muscle which was Porthos after all.

The man had a phone pressed to his ear, his body angled away which gave Athos the view of his dark hair gathered into a man bun at the back of his head.

“Yes. Sir I understand, should I –“

The man broke off and cursed before stuffing the mobile phone back into his pocket. Hung up on? The man’s hand reached up, rubbing over his forehead as he turned to face the room.

It was only then, with his face screwed up in frustration, Athos began to rethink his primary assessment of the figure in front of him. Not a man, he was barely more than a boy. Athos was hardly an expert estimating ages, but his novice effort would place the boy at about 19, 20 at the very most.

“You look like you’re having a worse day than me,” Athos swallowed in an attempt to moisten his mouth, “And I’m the one tied to the chair.”

The boy looked up, his arms crossing with hostility over his chest.

“We aren’t supposed to talk.”

Athos offered a shrug, or his best attempt with his arms still tied, “No one’s here to hear us, Kid.”

Fire flashed, just for the moment through the young man’s gaze. A hand shot out, finger pointing accusingly at Athos.

“I’m no kid!”

Ahh. Insecurity over his age? Athos filed that piece of information away for later. It was good to know the enemy’s pressure points.

“Meant no offence…” Athos swallowed again, shoving down the urge to cough up half a lung, “I hardly want to piss of the guy I’m locked in a room with.”

The boy just shrugged. He pushed of the wall and strode out of sight. A glint caught Athos’ gaze as he turned and he realised with stomach churning clarity that the boy had a knife strapped to his belt. Athos committed the weapon and its location to memory. At least it wasn’t a gun, though that seemed like a small comfort.

The boy returned only a moment later with a bottle of water. He cracked the seal and gulped down a few mouthfuls. Suddenly Athos’ mouth felt, if possible, even drier. He watched the kid wipe a drip from the side of his mouth and swallowed.

“Fancy sharing?”

The kid’s eyes narrowed, his eyes flicking from Athos to the water bottle in his hand. After, apparently deciding allowing water was no great threat, he held out the bottle.

Athos’ arched an eyebrow. He splayed his tied hands, as if to make a point, “That might be difficult…”

The boy seemed realise the problem only a second later and frowned, indecisive again.

“Look, I just need a drink. Not gonna try anything,” Athos promised, “Scouts honour…”

Not that he had ever been a scout.

With a sigh the boy stepped forward, his hand unscrewing the cap of the plastic bottle, “Tilt your head back…”

Athos obeyed and, finally, he felt the water hit his throat. The angle was awkward, and the water was lukewarm, but in that moment Athos did not care in the slightest. He swallowed obediently, gulping down the water until the kid pulled the container back. Athos licked his lips, moistening the cracked skin, and offered an appreciative nod.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The boy retreated back to the wall. He crouched down on his heels and set the bottle down beside him. His tanned forearms rested easily on his knees, dark eyes still fixed on Athos.

“You don’t want to be called Kid,” Athos mused. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to loosen his stiff muscles, “So what should I call you?”

The boy did not even need to open his mouth for Athos to realise it wasn’t going to be that simple. The boy shook his head, and Athos watched shutters come down behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to willingly offer any personal information, so Athos took stock of what he did know.

The boy was young, with a temper Athos was willing to bet could flare far worse than it had at the name kid. So desperate to be taken seriously, perhaps to prove himself to whoever was on the other side of the phone? Someone who thought little enough of him to hang up midsentence.

It wasn’t much of an analysis to go on, but it was a start.

“Do I at least get to know what I am doing here?”

The boy looked up at that, for a second Athos felt hopeful, then? A shrug.

“Orders is orders. I don’t questions, I just do as I’m told.”

“You don’t seem stupid, Kid,” Athos watched the boy’s shoulders tense at name, but didn’t say anything as Athos continued, “Can’t imagine you’d be content to just blindly follow orders.”

“Like you have any idea,” The boy’s hands gripped into fists, but, after a heartbeat, he released the tension.

“Well I could if you tell me?”

“Just- just don’t. We’re not supposed to talk so just-“

The kid’s words were cut off as metallic clang resounded throughout the room. The door, just as heavy as Athos had guessed, swung open.

“Charles?” A voice drawled through the open door. The boy, Charles he supposed, stood, his hands lacing themselves behind his back. Athos’ eyes roamed the boy as his eyes hardened, noting the momentary flash of anger behind them.

Anger at a superior? Why would the kid be desperate to prove himself to someone he disliked?

“I thought I made it clear you were not to speak to our guest.”

Polished shoes clicked forward, demanding the attention of all in the room. Athos’ eyes slid to the well-dressed figure who appeared. The black suit and red shirt were tailor made, Athos was sure, and the shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a “v” of pale skin. It reminded Athos of the way Aramis dressed on their rare nights off duty, clothes which cost an obscene amount worn in such a way it illicit thoughts of the body _without_ clothing. What was missing though was the easy wide smile Aramis wore as part of the outfit. This man’s cold blue eyes and slightly up-turned lip suggested a bad smell in the room, a bug on his designer shoe. His glare settled on Charles, who seemed intent to keep his gaze straight ahead.

“If this is how you treat your guests,” Athos’ rolled his neck, attempting to take the focus away from the young lad. His eyes fixed on the newcomer, “I’d hate to be your prisoner.”

The distraction worked, and whatever trouble the man had been about to reign down on the kid’s head was momentarily forgotten.

Those blue eyes slid and focused on Athos.

“Your reputation precedes you, sir. We saw it fit to take no chances.”

“Oh?” Athos feigned surprise, “And what kind of reputation is that?”

But he didn’t reply. Instead the man dug into his suit jacket’s inside pocket. Athos felt his body tense but all he was met with was a slim silver camera. He snapped a few photos, the flash making Athos’ still fragile head spin.

“Take those to Richelieu,” Athos blinked violently to remove the leftover flashes, his vision clearing just in time to see the camera be passed to Charles.

The younger man nodded, the small item stuffed deep into his pocket, “Yes, Rochefort.”

He stepped away from the wall, toward the open door, when Rochefort fixed him with another glare. Clearly the man wasn’t to be so easily distracted.

“And Charles?” The man’s voice was a drawl, almost as if he was bored, “I’m docking your week’s wages. Perhaps then you’ll learn to follow orders.”

“A _week_?” Charles spun in the doorway, anger suddenly burning all over his face, “For what?”

“Two weeks,” Rochefort flicked his hand as if bored with the whole conversation, “I suggest you leave, now. Unless you wish me to make a phone call and have Connie put on the rotation for tonight? Maybe she can make some of the money in The Silver Room tonight? Since you’re so intent on loosing it.”

Athos didn’t know who this Connie was and The Silver Room sounded only vaguely familiar, but at the mention of her name Charles whole body stiffened. It took a moment but, eventually, he seemed to shove his anger back down into the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, smoothing out his features, although Athos could still see the fury in his eyes.

“No… _Sir_.”

The tone Charles offered the last word in would have at best resulted at a slap round the back of the head from Treville and, at worst, a month’s worth of early morning endurance training if Athos has offered it to a superior officer. Rochefort didn’t seem to be bothered though, or if it did he didn’t see it as worth mentioning. He turned from Charles, firmly indicating the conversation was over.

“Then go, now.”

For a moment Athos thought the boy might actually keep arguing, but then he turned and stalked from the room.

Athos’ gaze followed the boy until he disappeared from view. That left just him. Well him and…

Rochefort turned, that cold gaze now focused solely on Athos. He stared back, his face a calm mask even as his insides churned. Charles may have been, young and impulsive but he had been easy to read. Charles wouldn’t, Athos was almost positive, have hurt him. The man in front of him though? The man was an anomaly. The clothes he owned suggested a high standard of living and their everyday use suggested the man wanted everyone to know it. He had seemed indifferent as he’d stripped the younger man of his pay but Athos wondered if the man had got some kind of kick out of it all the same.

“If its money you’re after you grabbed the wrong guy,” Athos didn’t let his eyes falter as he spoke, “I have a 2007 Toyota, a phone which still has a button keypad and a lap top which isn’t wifi compatible. You can take you like if you feel it would help?”

“And a sense of humour too,” Rochefort’s hand rubbed over his chin, “I wasn’t told of a sense of humour! Of all your skills, Olivier, I find that the most impressive.”

The name fell heavily in the air between them, his breath suddenly feeling as if it had been knocked from Athos stomach.

What?

Blood thundered against his eardrums at the name he knew he hadn’t misheard. He hadn’t heard that name in years, seen it in longer. Not on his bank cards or wage slips, not even his passport.

The name Olivier de La _Fère had been wiped of the face of his world._

It was rare that words failed him, Athos was always quick with a line or a comeback but, in that moment, his mind was a blank page. Carefully he sucked a breath in threw his teeth.

 _Settle,_ Athos scolded himself, remembering Treville’s words he’d offered so many years ago, _centre yourself and settle_.

“Who,” His voice was calm, dangerously calm. The calm before the storm, “Are those photos being sent to?”

Rochefort’s eyes danced, victorious in his success of rattling his captive to his very core. He stepped towards the door and Athos panicked. He jerked his arms violently against the unmoving bonds, desperate to get to the man and shake the answers from him.

“Get comfortable, Olivier.”

“Who are the PHOTOS for?” Athos lunged in the seat, glaring as the man stepped from the room and swung the firmly shut on Athos’ shouts.

 

* * *

 

The number of people who knew his birth name could be counted on one hand, Athos decided after he had calmed himself down. Treville knew, as did the lawyer who had drawn up his will. That seemed like everyone. Even Porthos and Aramis weren’t party to that information. Not that they minded. Aramis was open about his life before the Musketeers. Porthos less so, but parts of his story had bled out organically over the years. They both had accepted that, while Athos was more than willing to listen to their stories, he never offered his own. That was just how he was, which had led to Aramis to affectionately nicknaming him “grumpy cat.”

The three of them stuck in a dank house on a stake out in the east of Prague. Aramis sat at the window (his watch), binoculars in one hand and prized rifle resting on his knees. Porthos sat (but not settled) against a wall. His knee, pulled half way up to his chest, constantly jiggling in an attempt to rid himself of excess energy. Athos had curled on the mattress which was serving as a bed, book open on his knees. Aramis had seemed to take the attempt at quiet time as a personal offense and made it his mission to desperate to distract him.

“ _What must Treville have been thinking, sticking me with you two?” Aramis had dodged the piece of food flung good naturedly at him by Porthos, his eyes never left the target’s front door as he did so, “I need banter, companionship! Between Mr ADHD and Grumpy Cat over there I’ll have cabin fever before the arms dealers even show up.”_

Oh how Athos’ hands had twitched during that particular night, ready to strangle Aramis if he refused to stop talking. Suddenly, the nickname didn’t seem so bad.

But he was distracting himself. Who else was there to know the name Olivier? His mind was sliding into fond memories on purpose. He was ignoring someone, on purpose. He was raking through memories, thinking about Treville and some lawyer in some office and his two idiot friends when the most likely culprit danced, tantalisingly close, through his mind.

But that wasn’t part of his memory Athos wished to dwell on. The memory came from a part of his life which was stained with alcohol and prescription pills and bad decisions.

Not him… It couldn’t have been him.

He and his brother hadn’t spoken in over a decade.

The clank of the door being opened brought Athos back to reality. His head shot up and back stiffened just as Charles backed his way into the room. The door was shut behind him, although Athos couldn’t decide if it was locked. Charles turned and two separate observations drew Athos’ senses. The first, the steam rising from the bowl in his hand made his mouth water, the smells awakening his apparent ravenous hunger. The second, the dark bruised skin surrounding the boy’s left eye pulled a frown onto Athos’ features. The black eye shone, swelling causing his eye to sit at half-mast. Whoever had offered the punch knew how to offer some power behind it, Athos had seen similar enough times, been on the receiving end of a fair. The injury would hurt.

“That’s quite the shiner…” Athos commented, “You alright?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders and held up the spoon, indicating Athos should open his mouth.

But the man hesitated. He was tied to a chair in God only knows where, had is photograph taken and sent off to whoever was financing this whole thing. If they intended to move him, wouldn’t the simplest way be to drug his food.

“What’s in it?”

Charles rolled his eyes, “I’m not about to poison you.” He filled the spoon, tilted it slightly so Athos could see it was filled, and tasted the liquid himself. The boy dropped the spoon back into the bowl and offered the smallest of smirks, “Scouts honour.”

Athos’ eyebrow shot up as his words were quoted back to him.

“Now, you hungry or not?”

Athos relented, his stomach wouldn’t allow anything else at this rate, and nodded, “Please.”

Charles stepped forward carefully and began spooning the warm vegetable soup into Athos’ open mouth. It was good, Athos mused, thought wasn’t sure whether that was just the hunger talking.

He ate in silence, gratefully accepting what was offered until Charles scraped the bottom of the bowl with a spoon and sat back. Athos nodded gratefully, swallowing the last of the soup.

“Thanks.”

“It’s fine…” Charles settled himself against the wall, bowl sat next to him. His eyes closed for a second, fingers touching gingerly around the tender skin.

“I hope that wasn’t ‘cause you were caught talking to me,” Athos watched as the fingers stilled, the boy’s eyes sliding open with a sigh, “Wasn’t my intention to piss of old shiny shoes.”

Charles’ eyes cracked open and Athos could have sworn he saw a flash of amusement across his face. His cocked his head at the nickname. Athos just shrugged.

“No,” the boy shook his head eventually, “Not you. Me and my big mouth is all…”

“Sounds familiar,” Athos cracked his jaw, remember the punishment laps and extra details during his training for his smart mouth, “Hope the line was worth it.”

Charles snorted, “Suggested that Rochefort enjoyed tying you up a little too much.”

Athos, to his shock as much as the kid in front of him, let out a chuckle. Charles looked up, eyebrows raised in surprise. How many people would laugh while they were tied to a chair?

“He doesn’t seem like the sort to appreciate sarcasm,” Athos mused, “You didn’t lose any more money did you?”

Charles shook his head, “just punched me instead.”

Athos watched the boy, something in his voice suggested he was almost _grateful_ for the corporal punishment instead of docked wages. Odd…

“Is that… Better then?” Athos knew he had to tread carefully. Charles had shut down his questioning once, Athos couldn’t afford it to happen again, “You’d rather he punch you than take your wages?”

But Charles nodded, eyes focused on his fingers rather than the man he spoke to.

“Got a debt to work off. Rather get hit than lose my pay.”

Ah. There had been clues surrounding the man. Athos began to slip them together in his mind. His accent for one; his French was perfect but there was no way it was his mother tongue. Then there was the anger Athos had witnessed towards his superior. No respect, just a glare, as if the idea of Rochefort made his skin crawl. Still though, he followed orders as if he had no choice. Now a debt…

Athos had seen of this before, trafficking humans was, after all, big business. Hopeless people, desperate people promised new lives in counties like England or France. Gangs would smuggle them across boarders into the new country, only to present them with a bill on the other side they had no hope of paying. It was a source of free labour, exploited labour. The people would have no choice but to work for the gang, that or risk deportation if they were discovered by the authorities without a visa. Of course that was if they didn’t receive a bullet between the eyes for being trouble.

Charles was stuck, Athos could see that. He was a kid, promised a new life in a city paved with gold and instead had found himself stuck in a hell from which he couldn’t escape.

Athos nodded, not that Charles could see it. His eyes were still focused on his fingers, a nail running up and down a seam of his jeans.

“Where did they find you Charles? What did they promise you?”

The boy shrugged, “A life, work. Said ‘cause I spoke French I’d get a good job, we’d get a flat. Make a new life away from Ukraine. Never look back.”

Something shifted uncomfortably in the pit of Athos’ stomach. Charles was bitter, his words were flat, but one word stood out amongst the rest.

_We’d…_

“The girl who Rochefort threatened earlier…” Athos was fishing, but Charles nodded.

“My fiancée, Constance. They have her working behind the scenes at The Silver Room, mending shit, sewing and stuff. Rochefort says as long as I pull my weight here he’ll keep her in the back. But if I mess up…” Charles swallowed around a lump in his throat. He ducked his head, intent on hiding his face from Athos but the hunched shoulder and anxious hand running through his hair spoke volumes. He was terrified.

The Silver Room… It tickled something, far back in the roots of his memory, as if he’d been only half listening. His shared office slide into his memory, his friends both at their desks.

_“It’s my birthday,” Aramis had pouted as Athos had tried oh so hard to concentrate on the report he was supposed to be writing, “What’s wrong with going to look at some beautiful women and having a drink?”_

_“Not goin’ to a strip joint, Aramis,” Porthos seemed to be reading his friend’s mind, meaning Athos could stay out of the argument, “It’s seedy.”_

_“The Silver Room is a good place! A Gentlemen’s club! High class – honest.”_

_“S’not what I heard. Not so much Gentlemen’s club as barely concealed brothel.”_

_Aramis spun in his chair, seemingly unconcerned, “Porthos you shouldn’t listen to rumours. They’re started by competitors, it’s all one big game.”_

_“Pick somewhere else, Aramis… I’m vetoing.”_

A strip joint at best, a brothel at worst… Athos swallowed. No wonder the threat Rochefort had placed on Charles had worked so effectively. It wasn’t just his life on the line, his safety or freedom. It was hers too.

All of a sudden Athos’ stomach began to churn. He hadn’t planned on outright manipulating the boy, truthfully he hadn’t thought that far ahead, but he had begun to build trust, a relationship. Now anything Athos may have attempted now seemed impossible. Rochefort had already shown his willingness to manipulate the boy through this mystery girl. It wasn’t that the boy couldn’t be trusted, but Rochefort controlled his pressure point. Controlled him.

Love made even the most steadfast men sway under pressure.

Athos swallowed, stretching his wrists under the unmoving bonds. This had just got more complicated.

* * *

Charles’ phone had buzzed not long after, drawing him from the room. Athos was left alone with his thoughts, which was no bad thing. A few words had been dropped, hints had been accidently left and Athos intended to comb over the conversations to find all of them.

If Aramis had wished to go to The Silver Room for his birthday, it was more than likely it was in Paris, which likely meant he was still in Paris.

Good…

The night before was still somewhat blurry, Athos wasn’t sure whether the details would ever return, but he had enough for form a skeleton of a memory.

The trio had returned from an assignment, two significantly higher on life than the third.

_“Drinks!”Aramis’ arm slid itself easily around Athos’ shoulders, “Tonight we celebrate.”_

_Athos picked the arm by the sleeve, as if would bite at the slightest movement, and returned it to his owner._

_“Treville wants us for a debrief tonight. We’re going to the office.” Athos turned towards his car, but two strong, brown hands found his shoulders and spun him firmly back to the group._

_“We’ve been slavin’ for weeks Athos, chasing good-for-nothin’ drug lords and on our first night off you want to do paperwork?” Porthos pushed him firmly in the opposite direction of his car, towards the metro, “Nuh-uh, no chance. Bar.”_

_“Treville expects-“ Athos continued to protest, but his feet did begin to walk of their own accord once Porthos released his shoulders._

_Aramis slapped his shoulder as he strode past. The man was never happier than when he got his own way._

_“Treville will be fine. Seeing us tomorrow instead of tonight won’t kill him.”_

_So Athos had lost the fight and they’d found a bar, stolen a table and drunk through three rounds before Aramis’ phone had buzzed. When he’d returned to the table, he had a look of wide eyed innocence Athos had learned never to trust._

_“Was Anne, she’s alone for the night…” Aramis spread his hands in a ‘what can I do’ motion which sent Athos’ eyes rolling. Anne Royaline, Aramis’ on again, off again mistress, was married to France’s deputy prime minister – a fact Athos did his best to pretend didn’t exist._

_“Office, tomorrow, 9am,” Athos relented, “Go make terrible decisions.”_

_Aramis grinned and, despite Athos’ disgusted protests, smacked a wet kiss on his friend’s temple._

_“I shall! Goodnight my beautiful Grumpy Cat!”_

_He darted away before Athos could get his hands on him, said his goodbyes to Porthos at the bar and disappeared into the night._

_He and Porthos drank on merrily until Athos returned from the toilet to see a blonde (who looked barely old enough to be in the bar) wrapped round his friend._

_“It’s fine,” He waved his friend’s apologies away, “Go have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow, 9am sharp.”_

_And just like that he was alone. With the tab settled he’d stumbled from the bar. The metro was closed, there were cabs but Athos had decided to walk…_

But then the fuzziness began.

Athos sighed. His head rolled all the way round, every knot in his neck popping. There were flashes after leaving the bar… Footsteps behind him, fear as his hand had fumbled at his waist, only to realise his gun was still in his car. Strong hands grabbing at him, pain erupting in his temple and…

Athos cursed. He loathed those memory gaps. He had enough of those from his teenage years when wine had been reached for, far more often than any other beverage. Of course he’d drank last night, but not enough to black out. If he had to guess his memory loss had something to do with the pain he’d felt in his temple. And if that was the case it likely wouldn’t ever become clearer.

Not that it mattered now. Athos knew, likely, where he was. He had a firm idea of what he was here for and, most importantly, we was now well past the 9am office deadline. He would be missed.

Now he just needed a plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow!! Thank you so much for all your feedback, your reviews and kudos make me all happy!
> 
> Here's chapter 2 - I hope you like it!

It felt like hours since Athos had a visitor. Hours, but without a window he had no idea what time of day it was. If he was forced to guess, Athos supposed maybe he'd been missing for around 18 hours? However, with no one to miss him until 9am the next morning, anyone looking was likely 8 hours behind in their investigations. Because they would be investigating, Athos had no doubt in his mind about that. The Musketeers were held two things above all else; their elite skill set and their tight knit bond. The agents worked in groups of four (with the exception of Athos, Aramis and Porthos who were "too bloody minded" to accept a fourth – direct quote from Treville) but the Regiment as a whole were fiercely protective of one another. Slight one and you slighted them all. If Treville thought for a second there was foul play involved in Athos' disappearance every single agent would be pulled to work the case.

But of course, that would all only happen if Aramis and Porthos decided to tell Treville. Athos knew that wouldn't necessarily have happened. The pair may have thought they were covering for him by keeping his missing status quiet. Perhaps they thought he'd found some girl after they'd left and had over slept for work (although that would be a first – Aramis would probably hand out the party poppers at the idea of his Grumpy Cat getting laid). If they didn't raise the alarm until after lunch, or even the next day? Athos swallowed nervously. By the time they mobilised to look it might be too late.

The door clanged open again, drawing Athos' attention out of his own thoughts. He watched Charles shuffle into the room. Athos' mouth opened to offer a greeting, but froze when he saw the look on the young man's face. His mouth was set a tense line, his eyes avoiding Athos as he stepped into the room. He didn't look happy, it was a look Athos had observed before. What order was Charles begrudgingly following this time? For the first time the door wasn't swung shut behind Charles, instead a man stepped forward, hand gun held carefully, clasped in front of him. The gun, Athos was sure, was positioned in such a way to ensure he knew of its existence. A silent warning against trying to escape.

Athos shuffled in his seat, attempting to sit up in his tight bonds as his eyes jumped from the stranger's weapon back to Charles.

"What's going on?"

The boy didn't answer, he didn't even look up, but his hand did slip to his side, pulling his knife from its resting place on his hip.

"Charles…" Athos breathed the name as a warning, watching as the blade rose, clutched in the boys unshaking hand.

His breathing picked up as the blade moved closer, eyes focused on the metal as it glinted and reflected the artificial lighting.

"You don't need to do this, Charles - _Charles!"_

The knife was at eye level. A breath hitched in his throat as Athos braced himself, waiting for pain, but then the blade dropped. Athos swallowed, watching as Charles sliced through the ropes holding his wrists in place.

What the…

"Don't be stupid," Charles murmured so quietly Athos had to strain to hear as he bent and sliced his legs free, "Please. He will shoot you if you try to run."

Athos nodded ever so slightly, beginning to roll his shoulders for the first time in what felt like years. The stretch almost pulled a grateful moan from the man, though he forcefully bit the sound back.

"You're to follow me," Charles stepped back and slide his blade back into place.

The stranger with handgun still in view suggested to Athos he had no choice. He stood, ignoring his stiffened, wobbly legs. Charles made a sweeping motion with his hand and Athos stepped in front of him.

"Turn left," Charles muttered from behind his shoulder. Athos did briefly consider making a grab for Charles knife, but hesitated. Partly because he could hear the third set footsteps he guessed belonged to the man and handgun, but just importantly, he didn't want Charles implicated in him attempting to escape.

Treville, if he were here, would have scoffed at Athos' ' _soft heart'_. Athos could practically hear the man's voice, tickling in his ear, reminding him that collateral damage was necessary for survival. Normally Athos might agree, but Charles was every inch the prisoner he was. He wasn't bound or chained but the threats offered by Rochefort would control him just as well.

Athos wasn't about to get the kid shot in the cross fire as he attempted an escape.

Instead Athos followed Charles' instructions, allowing himself to be walked down the long corridor. It was the same grey concreate of his room, without a single window. Perhaps, Athos noted, he was underground. It would make sense, fit with everything he had seen. Maybe a basement complex?

The odd group stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway.

"Open it."

The handle was cool in Athos' hand, the door just as stiff and heavy as the one to his cell seemed. He stepped inside, eyes scanning the room. The room was much the same as the one he'd been from. No window, though no chair either. He flicked his gaze up, noting a large metal ring set into the ceiling. Rope hung from it limply, reaching a third of the way to the floor. Athos stepped further into the room and turned to face Charles.

"What's going on?"

The boy bent, grabbing the few feet of rope which sat, pre-cut by the door.

"Your hands."

Suddenly Athos understood. His gaze flicked to the ring again and then down to the concreate directly under it. There were a few dark stains sunken into the material, left over blood from the last poor sod to be strung up in the room. His heart thundered against his ribcage. He knew exactly what kind of room this was.

Charles grabbed for Athos' wrists beginning to bind them. Athos attempted a few times to catch the kid's gaze, but Charles refused. He was ashamed. He'd known this was coming, where he had been leading Athos. The guilt was etched into his features, making the kid look even younger. To Charles, whatever was about to happen was wrong, and he, by association, was guilty of allowing it. It seemed the boy was judge and jury over his own conscience. By the pained look on his face it was clear he'd found himself guilty. Athos, however, had already seen the sanctions dished out if orders weren't obeyed. He couldn't expect Charles to face those for him. He wouldn't.

Athos offered up his wrists without complaint, shuffling a little closer as Charles continued to tightly bind them.

"Hey," Athos' lips barely moved as he muttered to Charles. The boy looked up, a hesitancy swimming in his gaze.

"Orders is orders… Right?"

Charles blinked, surprised by the words offered. Athos offered a small nod; the kid wasn't to blame. He had as little choice as Athos himself. He frowned but, after the meaning of Athos' action became clear, he offered one of his own.

"Step back," Charles indicated the spot under the loop. Athos followed and raised his hands, allowing them to be ties tightly to the rope above his head. Charles pulled the rope tight, until Athos was right on the edge of being stretched onto his toes. The pull strained his already sore shoulders, the burn far worse in the right socket. Now that he was adequately secured the gun man stepped back and jerked his head at Charles.

"Go on. Tell Rochefort he's ready for La Fère."

La _Fère…_ Athos's eyes closed, his heart thundering somewhere in his throat.

Ready for La Fère... The list of people who could have organised this just shrank to one.

Athos eyes stayed tightly shut as attempted to control his breathing, so he missed Charles' final look before he exited the room.

* * *

"His badge!"

Slam!

"His gun!"

Slam!

"His car has _not_ been moved since last night."

Aramis' hands slammed down next to Athos' discarded items on his boss' desk. His white shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his golden rosary beads sneaking free of the shirt and dangling in front of Treville's face.

"There's something wrong. We tracked his mobile, found it in a bush two blocks from the bar where we left him. Athos _doesn't_ just take off on a whim!"

"Captain, Aramis might need ta' stop shoutin'," Porthos came to a stop from his stalking up and down the office and shot a pointed look at his friend, "but he's right. Athos doesn't disappear."

Captain Treville ran a hand over his jaw, eyes focused on his agent's face, looking up at him from this ID badge. Shaggy hair and unkempt beard which was a firmly _because I can_ decision after Athos had left the army. Pale skin, bright blue eyes with the hint of wrinkles beginning at the edge. He'd known the boy since he was fourteen, over twenty years now. He'd watched him hit rock bottom and then dragged him back up. Treville had watched him enter the army, kept an eye on him as he'd excelled at the life he had chosen once he'd finally set his mind to it. When the time came Treville had offered him a place in the Musketeers, not because he felt sorry for the man or because they had history, but because he had more than proven himself and earned his place in the elite company.

Now though, he had a sinking feeling.

"Sit down. Both of you."

"Sit – sit down?!" Aramis looked about a hair width from losing his cool. His dark eyes smouldered, his normally perfectly quaffed hair and goatee wild from the amount all the stress finger runs through his hair.

"I can make it an order if necessary, _Herblay._ "

Aramis glowered, he didn't appreciate being second-named like a teenager in front of his headmaster, but sank down all the same, Porthos following only a moment after. He, at least, seemed to have his head screwed on.

"Captain what's going on? What aren't you telling us?"

The pair watched their boss sigh, a hand rubbing along his lined face, "How much has Athos told you of his past?"

Aramis snorted, but Porthos decided he could be helpful.

"Nothin'. He doesn't. Well he's private. We know he served in the army before the Musketeers, but that's about it… Why?"

"Of course. Stubborn man. Right…" Treville pinched the bridge of his nose, "What I'm about to tell you is private and Athos will probably try to put a bullet in me for telling you but this is important."

He fixed them both with an unsettling look until they both nodded. Even Aramis had calmed down, apparently realising that whatever their Captain had to say was significant.

"I've known Athos since he was fourteen. His father was military, we served together. His father was killed in combat a few weeks before Athos' fifteenth birthday, I was the one who delivered the news to the family. The news broke his mother, and that left Athos and his brother without much support."

"His, his _brother?"_ Aramis received a glare for outburst and held up a hand in apology before Treville continued.

"I promised their father I would look out for his boys, I failed in that." Treville reached into his desk and withdrew a dark brown file. Porthos took it when offered and flicked it open. Inside the file was a single piece of paper, two mugshots and a set of blurry prints. He took a closer look at the top photo. Good looking guy, pale skin and buzz cut hair. His eyes were an electric blue and uncomfortably familiar.

"Thomas de La Fère…" Aramis read over his friends shoulder, frowning, "The name meant to mean something?"

"The man you're looking at is Athos' younger brother."

"Aged 34. Charges of drug possession and distribution, burglary, insighting prostitution…" Porthos read from the conviction sheet, "First conviction aged, sixteen?" He let out a low whistle before dropping the file back to the table.

"Started young."

Treville nodded, "Only he didn't. The police got the wrong brother. Thomas was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Athos he…"

The man faultered, eyes turning to each to the men in front of him. Athos, if he was still alive, would surely kill him for this.

"He had a hard time after his father past. His mother collapsed in on herself and I'd just been recruited into the Musketeers myself. My life got busy and I let the La Fère brothers slip through the cracks. Athos got in to a questionable group, they convinced him to sell coke in school. The money must have been good because Thomas was desperate to join in. One day Athos gave in asked him to go and collect from a supplier. He was meant to collect a package and deliver it to Athos' boss, who'd give Thomas a cut to sell. He thought he was just letting his brother in on the money… Athos had no idea the police had been closing in on their supplier. He sent his brother into a drugs bust. Thomas got caught in the middle of it with two kilograms of Cocaine."

Aramis let out a string of curse words which received a glare from his Captain.

"Sorry."

Once his agent seemed appropriately chastised, the Captain continued, "Athos tried to explain but the police wouldn't hear it. Thought he was just a boy trying to cover for his brother. In the end Thomas got 7 years. Thomas swore Athos knew about the bust and set him up. Left the court room swearing he'd get even. After that refused to see Athos, or me. As far as I'm aware he still holds that grudge."

"So, what…" Porthos ran hand over his forehead, fast feeling a headache coming on, "You think Thomas has something to do with Athos going missing?"

Treville pulled out a second photo. It was a grainy CCTV photograph, but Thomas de La Fère could be made out, head close to a man with slicked back blond hair. Porthos recognised the building as a motorway service station about an hour from Paris.

"I wanted to show Athos this last night and prepare him for this possibility but _somehow_ you all never made it back to the office."

Aramis at least had the decency to look guiltily at Porthos.

"The time stamp is days ago. The man pictured with him has been identified as Marc Rochefort, a high up thug in the Guard."

Porthos' brow arched, "The street gang?"

The Captain nodded, "Rochefort has been under surveillance for a while. Been arrested a number of times for charges ranging from drugs to human trafficking – no ones ever managed to get anything to stick."

Treville's finger jabbed at the CCTV picture. "This was sent to me yesterday morning, I wanted to warn Athos myself. If his brother is back in Paris, he needs to be on the alert. And if he's making friends with the sort of Rochefort we all need to be worried."

Porthos blew out a breath, reeling on the information their Captain had just thrown at them. He cursed his friend and his secrecy, but supposed he couldn't blame him.

"Do we know where this Rochefort hangs out?" Aramis drew the CCTV picture towards him and studied the blonde figure. Porthos had a suspicion the sharp shooter was committing both faces to memory, just on the off chance they were ever in his riffle's cross hairs.

"I've compiled a list of bars and clubs he's been known to frequent. With any luck he'll be at one of them."

Aramis nodded and, with a glance at Porthos, stood up, "Email it to my mobile. We'll let you know if we find anything."

Porthos followed moments later, grabbing his own leather jacket before chucking Aramis his suit blazer.

"Stay in touch. I'll have the rest of the team ready to mobilize at a moment's notice," Treville stood, knuckles pressing to his into his desk, "I'll makes some calls, see what I can't dig up on either of them. Be careful though. Both of you."

Porthos slapped his friend on the back. Aramis lead the way to the door and disappeared. Porthos stopped for a moment and glanced over his shoulder to his commanding officer.

"We'll bring him home, Captain. We don't leave brothers behind."

* * *

"Olivier – It's been too long!"

A figure appeared in the doorway; a tall, broad man with close cut hair and tattoos snaking out of his sleeve cuff. The man stepped in and smiled, his hands spread wide as if their meeting was a welcome surprise. It was only the eyes which suggested this reunion was anything but happy. His gaze burned.

Athos swallowed. His chin raised, firmly ignoring the fact he was hung by his wrists. It hurt, but he'd be damned if he was to let his face show that.

_Settle,_ There were Treville's words again, _Centre yourself and settle._

"Agreed Tommy, but I do have a phone… The theatrics seems somewhat excessive."

Thomas' eyebrow shot up, arms coming up to cross over his chest.

"It's a pity, I'd hope your wit might have improved with age…"

Athos swallowed carefully, "Sadly my stubbornness hasn't either."

He watched his younger brother's thumb run across his bottom lip, as if he was considering Athos as some business deal or new investment. He impassive stare sent uncomfortable pricklings down his spine.

"You name has though. Who the hell is _Athos Alexander,_ Olivier? The La Fère name not good enough for you? Ashamed your little army buddies might find out about your convict brother?"

"I was never ashamed of you, Thomas."

"No," Thomas' eyes shone. He took a step forward, face settling uncomfortably close to Athos' face. He could feel hot breath on his cheek, smell his brother's cologne which was nothing like the Tommy he remembered.

"Would have been insult to injury right? Since you put me there… Abandoned me."

Despite the ache in his right shoulder Athos stood tall, unmoving under his brother's gaze. He hit back with his own stare.

"I didn't know," Athos held his brother's gaze. He hadn't believed him all those years, had made up his own truth in his mind to focus on. Thomas was deluded, he believed his own lie. Athos' jaw set, "I had no idea the police were there. I tried to tell them after you were arrested. The detectives, your lawyer. No one would listen. No one listened but I _tried_! Even after you were convicted I tried! I sent you letter after letter after, you ignored all my calls. I turned up for every visit day for the six months you were in jail. You wouldn't see me!"

"Why would I want to see you? Why would I want to talk to my _only_ brother, the guy who sent me into _his_ drugs deal and got me arrested?" Hands snapped out suddenly and shoved Athos' shoulder blades. His feet skidded out from under him, his whole body weight yanking down on his shoulders. A groan was ripped from Athos' throat, fire igniting in his right arm as something _tore._

"I didn't know!" Athos coughed. He dragged his legs back under him, his shoulder dulling to an intense throb as the pressure was relieved, "You've convinced yourself I did this to you, and maybe I did, but it was an accident! An _accident_ Thomas."

Athos knew, he just _knew_ he was wasting his breath. Thomas had nursed this hurt since he was a teenager, had stroked and nurtured his grudge throughout his time in prison and into his new life as a felon.

"I own it," Athos swallowed around his dried mouth, "I got you arrested. Mistake or not it was my doing. But the second time, the third? You cannot blame me for that Tommy. That was all you…"

And that did it. Athos saw the clenched fist it collided into the right side of his face. Pain exploded along his right cheek bone and a metallic taste erupted on his tongue. He coughed, blood dripping into the corner of his mouth.

"You _left_ me! You abandoned me!" The next punch hit Athos' gut, knocking the air from his lungs and forcing his weight back into his shoulders as he doubled over.

As the next blow fell, this time against his ribs, Athos realised the truth didn't matter. The truth, it had been said, was relative and what mattered now was Thomas' truth. He believed, deep down to his core, in Athos' guilt. That was his reality. Or rather, the only reality which counted.

The next cough that erupted from Athos' lungs sent blood droplets spattering to the floor. Thomas only paused for a moment, before his fist connected with his brother's jaw again.

"I've waited _so_ long for this, Olivier," Fingers wound themselves into Athos' hair and yanked his head backwards. Athos hissed as his eyes were forced to stare into his brothers face. The brother who'd followed him around in admiration as kids, who'd turned to his arms for comfort after their father had been killed, who's eyes were now dancing with euphoria at seeing his brother in pain.

"I'm going to take my sweet time with you…"

His legs were swept from under him, his whole weight jerking his injured shoulder, pain blackening his vision for a heartbeat.

The pain didn't stop.

* * *

Athos lost count of blows, lost track of time. His feet had lost their footing and his mind had lost his smart remarks. Pain roared in his veins, thundering throughout every inch of his body before erupting in and around his shoulder joint. Every breath came as an effort, taken around a sharp pain which spoke of at least one broken rib.

"I'm going to see Rochefort. Cut him down before he chokes on his own blood."

A hand slapped against his cheek, the act practically a caress in comparison to the rest those hands had done, "In a bit, big brother. Like I said, it's been too long."

Athos didn't raise his head, he didn't think he could, but listened as footsteps clattered around him.

"No, Olivier. Don't pass out. Common, please…"

Charles?

Suddenly the strain on his arms dropped away and Athos felt himself crumple to the floor. Strong arms caught around his waist and lowered his body the rest of the way.

"Don't you dare sleep, come on now," Water splashed onto his face, wonderfully cool against his skin, before the plastic of a water bottle neck was pressed to his lips. Athos gulped gratefully, past caring as water dribbled from his mouth and down his cheek.

"Good. Now open your eyes. Let me see them."

Athos groaned, he didn't want to open his eyes, he wanted to sleep, to drift. More water splashed onto his face. He felt his body being moved, until his back was propped against the wall.

"Olivier, come on. Now…"

"Don't," Athos' voice scratched through the little room, lifting his heavy eyelids to the harsh light, "Don't call me that..."

Charles' face swam into vision, his nervous gaze fixed solely on the man's face. He released a nervous breath, smiling as Athos finally acknowledged him.

Carefully Charles reached out a hand and pushed Athos' sweat soaked hair from his forehead, "Don't call you what?"

"Olivier…"

Charles soaked a rag and rubbed it over Athos' tender face. As he pulled it away, Athos could see the material was stained with red.

"But it's you name?"

"Not anymore."

Charles raised an eyebrow, rubbing the moistened cloth over his cracked lips, "What should I call you then?"

"Athos. I'm Athos now."

"Alright then," Charles sat back on his heels, "If you stop calling me Charles."

Athos' head rolled to the side, his muscules over stretched and sore, although his eyes stayed stuck to the young man's face.

"Mean I can call you Kid after all?"

Charles blinked, surprised at Athos' words, but then smiled, "Not so much… But my friends used to - well Constance calls me d'Artagnan…"

Athos rolled the name round in his head, testing it out, "S' a mouthful…"

Charles - no, d'Artagnan - nodded in agreement and shrugged, "True… Was my name back, back before... I always hated Charles, mother had no imagination."

A laugh bubbled from Athos, but before long turned into a coughing fit. d'Artagnan gripped his shoulder gently and helped him lean forward. The boy winced as he watched spatters of crimson blood hit the concreate floor.

"Athos, what…"

"Ribs," Athos muttered as he was placed back against the wall. He raised his left and brought it to rest on his chest. Gingerly his fingers began their inspection and pressed gently on each rib. The third drew a moan from deep within his throat, "Least one broken…"

"Your lungs?"

Athos shook his head, "I'd feel a full collapse. Might be a puncture, rib's probably actin' like a plug."

d'Artagnan swallowed, a hand running over his tied back hair, "That sounds safe…"

"Beggars can't be choosers… Though would be a shit way to go…"

The boy huffed, rocking back on his heels. Athos watched as he scrubbed the balls on his hands into his eye sockets. His shoulders took on a hunch again, stress screaming from every muscule.

"I can't… Athos I can't get you out. I can't, I can't - they'll kill her, or kill me and have for Constance work of the debt in some back room seeing 10 men a night. I can't I-"

"I know…" Athos' hand crept out and found the boy's leg.

d'Artagnan looked up and Athos saw the glisten in his eyes before the man scrubbed them away.

"If I could…"

"I know," Athos' hands kept a tight hold on the boy's knee, "So do something else for me… This is important though. I have friends, friends who will come looking for me… If I'm-"Another cough erupted, shaking through Athos' body. More blood spilled from his mouth, which d'Artagnan helped clear up with his rag and water bottle. Athos nodded thankfully before continuing, "If they're too late-"

"Athos-"

"No listen," Athos' eyes pressed closed for a second, pushing down a wave of nausea which threatened to bring up the water he'd only just drank, "If they're too late, if I'm not around, give them this message, can you do that?"

d'Artagnan nodded, though, after realising the beaten man's eyes had shut, murmured a "yes".

"All for one… Say it to them. Big guy, dark skin and curly hair or a tanned man with a ridiculous moustache and goatee. You'll do it?"

But they were out of time. The door floor was flung open, a happy crow erupting from the opening before d'Artagnan could offer his promise.

"You're awake! Oh Olivier good job, always so stubborn. I'd hate for you to miss our time to catch up," Thomas shot a look at d'Artagnan, "Leave us. This is family business. Out."

The boy scrambled to his feet, noticing how Athos didn't even flinch at his brother's voice. His feet hesitated, stomach twisting uncomfortably with the realisation of what would transpire when Thomas was left alone with his brother.

Thomas' eyebrow raised, "Now!"

_I'm sorry…_ d'Artagnan promised, before fleeing from the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the wrap up of our little story! Hope you like it ^^

d’Artagnan fell out of the building’s back door and into a twilight covered side street. The building, by all accounts, looked like a normal bar. And it was, for the most part. But there had been no planning permission for the basement conversion, no official plans. As far as the city of Paris was concerned, the cells underneath the building didn’t exist.

The cell Athos was being beaten half to death in didn’t exist.

His stomach flipped and d’Artagnan bent forward, retching up his stomach contents behind a bin. He couldn’t do this… Before this Rochefort had had him running drugs, passing messages, acting as a bouncer in The Silver Room or body guard. That had been doable. He might have hated his boss, but he could _do_ that work. This though?

Athos’ bloodstained face swam behind his closed eye lids, his limp battered body hanging by his wrists from the ceiling.

d’Artagnan squatted down against the brick wall, his hands sinking themselves into his hair and gripping onto the roots. But what could he do? He couldn’t, _couldn’t_ get him out. Not with Constance still in that fuckin’ brothel. The moment his betrayal was discovered they’d sink a bullet into her head, that or force her to work up front and-

He was going to be sick again…

There was nothing he could do! Athos was being beaten under his feet and there was _nothing_ he could do to stop it.

d’Artagnan was so wrapped up in his thoughts, in his pain, he hadn’t heard the two sets of footsteps approaching.

“Ya’ see what I see, Aramis?” two hands grabbed the front of d’Artagnan’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. The boy was clattered against the hard wall, his head bouncing painfully off the surface. He let out a curse. His eyes opened to a close up view of a bear of a man, eyes burning with fury into his own.

“There’s blood on his clothes,” A different voice commented, “And I’ve seen that pretty face somewhere before.”

The voice stepped forward, revealing that it belonged to similarly aged man, who was currently looking intently through his phone.

“Ah-ha!” He held it up for d’Artagnan to see. Obviously pulled from some CCTV camera, the screen showed himself opening a car door, Rochefort’s blond head appearing as if he was stepping out. The footage could have been pulled from any one of the “business” meetings Rochefort had attended in the last month.

“It’s amazing what Treville can dig up,” The man (Aramis?) continued, “Our Captain has so many connections, so many favours to cash in.”

His eyes glanced to his friend, almost as if d’Artagnan wasn’t there, “Would be a foolish man to risk angering our Captain, right Porthos? I wouldn’t dare mess with him or anyone he cares about.”

“Or me,” The brute of a man, Porthos, agreed, “Especially not his men. He’d break anyone who messed of us in two.”

“I…” d’Artagnan tried his best to get a word out, but the pair just carried on, all while still pinning him to the wall.

“Now see our friend is missin’,” the man holding d’Artagnan’s shirt looked him dead in the eye, “And we know your boss is up to his nasty little neck in it.”

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Aramis’ hand disappeared, returning only a moment later holding a sleek, black, hand gun.

d’Artagnan jerked violently, a strangled cry escaping his mouth. His body barely moved an inch in Porthos’ iron grip, “Wait, wait- just-“

Aramis levelled the gun at the boy’s chest, if he’d heard d’Artagnan’s pleas he didn’t react to them, “I’m going to count three. If you haven’t told us, exactly, where to find your boss by then I’m going to put a bullet whichever limb I feel like. Then we’ll start again and keep going until you run outta places to put holes.”

The madman smiled brightly, flashing his teeth before running his free hand over his…

Wait, goatee?

d’Artagnan’s eyes jerked to the other man in front of him.

“One…”

Dark skinned, curly hair.

“…Two…”

Shit, shit, shit!

“…Three.“

“All for one!”

d’Artagnan’s eyes scrunched shut, bracing himself for pain, but it didn’t come. Instead, the iron grip on his t-shirt loosened.

“What did you just say?”

He cracked his eye open. Both men were staring at him, looks equal parts surprise and trepidation.

“Uhh…” d’Artagnan swallowed, desperately trying to remember how to speak, “All for one. He told me to say it if his friends came looking for him…”

Aramis lowered the gun slowly, finger sliding of the trigger, “Who is ‘he’?”

d’Artagnan swallowed, eyes darting between the men in front of him. He could only hope he had made the right decision, hope that Athos hadn’t given him the secret sigh for ‘ _arrest this no good fucker and avenge my death’._

“Athos.”

Hands released his shirt collar slowly, but the brick of a man who answered to Porthos didn’t back out of d’Artagnan’s personal space.

“You know what you just said, Kid?”

The nickname bristled against d’Artagnan’s ego but he bit back a retort, half an eye still on that gun, “No.”

“We use that phase in the field, over comms. Means that the line we’re talking on is secure, can be trusted,” Porthos leaned down to d’Artagnan’s height so he could look the boy straight in the face. It was an odd sensation. D’Artagnan was no small man but compared to Porthos he felt positively below average.

“If Athos gave you that phrase means we’re to trust you. Is he right? Can we trust you?”

d’Artagnan swallowed awkward, feeling the weight of the two sets of eyes on him, “Yea…”

“Good,” Porthos stepped back, hand reaching for his own gun at his belt, “Then take us to him.”

Oh no, oh shit… They couldn’t go all guns blazing in there! If Rochefort thought it was a raid…

“I can’t.”

d’Artagnan watched Aramis’ eyes darken with rage, “I only _just_ decided not to shoot you, but if you wont cooperate-“

“If you go in there looking like a raid or an ambush Rochefort will panic!” d’Artagnan stepped forward desperately, although froze as Aramis’ finger slid back onto the trigger, just in case, “He will initiate wipe down procedure to destroy any evidence of his involvement in trafficking.”

“We aren’t here to arrest Rochefort,” Porthos dismissed the claim with a shake of the head, “He’s someone else’s slimy little problem. We’re here for our friend. Preserving evidence isn’t worth-”

“The evidence is _people_!” d’Artagnan’s voice cracked. Constance’s face swam into gaze, the other girls who were locked in The Silver Room as well. They’d be getting ready for the night’s shift, muttering in groups in their own language while they pulled on their outfits. If the Rochefort called for a wipe down they would never see the guns coming. Not until the shooting started.

“Men and women,” d’Artagnan’s hand wiped over his forehead, shoving the dark tendrils which has escaped his bun out of his face, “They were brought here with empty promises and forced to work. Trafficked and smuggled into France. Rochefort will order their death if he thinks the police are onto him. He won’t leave anyone alive to testify against him…”

Porthos flinched. They didn’t have time for this, they _needed_ to get to Athos, but if the kid was telling the truth… Athos would never allow those people to be hurt in his name, “Aramis?”

Where Porthos looked unsure, nervous to make a decision, Aramis’s eyes hadn’t flinched from the boy in front of him. d’Artagnan felt like he was being stripped under that hard gaze, layers and layers of bravado and bluster pulled back until Aramis could see into his core. See the measure of d’Artagnan as a man.

“I’m not lying,” d’Artagnan swallowed, “My fiancée is in there. Please.”

Apparently, Aramis must have decided he was telling the truth. He raised his chin, eyes never once leaving d’Artagnan’s.

“You know where these people are kept?”

d’Artagnan’s head bounced, “Most are girls, kept in The Silver Room. They’re kept there ‘til work of debts. There’s a few men kept in a unit on the outskirts of the city.”

Aramis nodded. Finally his eyes snapped away from d’Artagnan, who sagged slightly in relief. Instead he looked at Porthos, who nodded as if they were part of a silent conversation.

“Call Treville. We set two teams. All go in together, shut all three operations down at the same time.”

Porthos had already dug in his mobile from his pocket, hitting his boss’ speed dial.

“Captain? We need some help.”

* * *

 

“Don’t you _dare_ sleep, Olivier!” A hand ground into Athos’ hair, mingling in the stale sweat and crusted blood on his scalp. His head was tugged up viciously, the last of his water splashed onto his face.

“This isn’t over! I’m not done with you!”

Athos felt another round of coughs rack his chest, his ribs were violently jostled, pain shooting through his lungs. His breaths were coming in wheezes, each one a sharpening pain in his sore chest. In an attempt to pacify the man looming above him Athos forced his eyes open. The light was painfully bright.

“There you go, Olivier…”

The hand gripped and tightened in his hair, drawing a tired groan from the man’s cracked lips.

“Make you,” breathe, wheeze, “feel better, Tommy..?”

“Seeing you like this?” His head was dropped and Athos crumpled to the floor, “Yea. Is pretty nice.”

“Feel… Even?”

A foot came down savagely on Athos’ elbow and pain burst forth in curdled scream.

“You know what? No, not yet.”

The foot smashed into the same arm again and scalding white pain blinded Athos’ gaze.

“Let’s here you! Let’s hear the pain, same as the pain you caused me!”

Thomas ground the broken bone around in Athos’ arm under his heel. The pain was like nothing he had experienced as the bones ripped from their tendons and ground together like sand grit. His vision narrowed to a pin prick, the sound of his own cries filling his ears.

* * *

 

“30 seconds,” Porthos eyes flicked back from his watch, eyeing d’Artagnan. The men had their guns in hand, d’Artagnan only his knife. Aramis had eyed him warily when he’d drawn it, but as Porthos had pointed out they couldn’t leave him completely unarmed.

“Aramis to the office, take out the guards. You and I down the stairs to basement. 3154 on key pad. Last door at the end of the corridor, pad lock 611.”

Porthos had repeated those instructions twice and d’Artagnan was willing to bet it was as much for him as it was Aramis or himself.

“10 seconds, ready?”

d’Artagnan nodded but Aramis leant forward, his lips only centimetres away from the lads ear.

“Betray us and I’ll shoot you myself.”

The promise, not a threat but a promise, sent a shudder down d’Artagnan’s spine, but he nodded, “understood.”

“Aand… Go!”

The three of them exploded through the door.

* * *

 

“How does it feel?” Thomas crouched down next to his brother’s battered body, “How does it feel when you brother causes you such pain? Feel hurt?”

Thomas shoved against Athos’ shoulder, rolling him onto his back. His arm flopped lifelessly at his side. Athos was vaguely aware he couldn’t feel his fingers. The new position on his back laboured his breathing even more. His ribs stabbed against his insides with every breath in, every inhale a strain on his tired broken body.

Thighs settled on either side of his broken body as Thomas squatted over him – face so close to his older brother.

“Years I thought about this, about seeing you like this…” A finger trailed gently down his cheek and along his swollen eye socket, “See Olivier? I didn’t want you letters or phone calls or visits… I didn’t want your sorrys. I wanted this… I wanted to get even.”

Athos’ eyes squinted up. It took his brain a few moment to recognise the dark, round, object looming above him. It was only the click of the safety being removed which slotted his memory into place.

His eyes blinked, staring up into barrel of a gun.

“Killin’ me wont’ help…” Athos mumbled, the coopery taste of blood sliding between his teeth and over his tongue, “You th’nk it will… But you’re wron’.”

Thomas growled. His eyes darkened, blackened to the point Athos _knew_ there was no return. His brother wasn’t thinking anymore. He was drunk on adrenaline, on his own revenge plot.

“I’ll let you know if it helps!”

The cool barrel of the gun was pressed into the soft underside of Athos’ jaw. His gaze didn’t falter from Thomas’ crazed eyes.

“I love you, Tommy…”

Athos sucked one final breath through his teeth. His time had run out.

The bang of a door reverberated around room. Athos tensed, waiting for the gun shot, but instead…

“Ge’ off my friend or I will paint the wall with your brain.”

A breath caught in his throat. That wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair. How cruel could his brain be? To tease him with visions of friends before death? Was it not enough that his life was to come to an end in some underground prison? Must he be taunted with hallucinations of his friends as well? He could just slip away… Flee from the painful visions of his friends into the grey unknown..?

The weight disappeared from his pelvis, along with the pressure of the gun barrel. His eyes slipped shut, losing focus as two strong hands cupped his face.

“No! No you stupid, grumpy, old man don’t you dare!”

With the doors opened fleeting sounds of sirens danced mockingly into the room as the hands began to tap his face insistently.

“Please- Athos common’ for me? Don’t go to sleep,” A pause and then, “Shit, where the HELL are the paramedics?”

Why was everyone desperate for him to stay awake? Darkness narrowed along Athos’ unfocused gaze, his mouth slackening as the voice above him howled.

“Don’t you dare, Athos please – please…”

But the blackness was inviting. He was tired.

“Shit, shit, shit… In here! He's going into shock! Help!”

The blackness welcomed him.

* * *

d’Artagnan’s cell was fourteen feet by twelve. There were 378 tiles on the ceiling. He’d counted, twice. He’d paced every inch of the tiny room, sat on every square of the tiny single cot bed. He’d banged his fists the grey iron door for what felt like hours on end but no one had come. Food was just posted through the mail slot at ground level.

They hadn’t even told him! Images of Athos’ body, suddenly so small and still, plagued his consciousness every moment he closed his eyes. It felt like those last images of the man were seared into his eyelids. A man he’d been too weak to save…

d’Artagnan curled himself into the corner of his uncomfortable bed, knees drawn up to his chest, forehead pressed against his knee cap. The last time he’d seen Athos played again in his mind as if on sick sadistic loop.

_“… In here! He's going into shock! Help!”_

_At Porthos’ desperate shout two men in EMT uniforms shoved passed him. d’Artagnan had stumbled backward, allowed himself to be pushed back as Thomas de La Fere had been dragged past him in handcuffs. His gaze just stared passed him, eyes focused on the man on the floor as the back-up team seemed to arrive to help._

_He can’t be dead… He can’t be dead…_

_“Arrest him.” Two strong hands grabbed his shoulders as he was hauled back. He was spun as he hands were wrenched behind his back and cuffed, coming face to face with a thunderous glare which made him want to shrivel._

_“Where to you want him Captain? With the others?” A voice he didn’t recognise asked from over his shoulder._

_The stranger’s eyes narrowed, “No. Back to our holding cells. I’ll deal with him personally.”_

_d’Artagnan felt a shove in his back before he realised, fully, what was going on. They were taking him away! Away from the man who he’d tried to save. Away from ‘the others’, whoever they were.._

_“Wait-wait, please!” His heard lunged round, trying to find Porthos in the group around Athos. His back was to the action, Athos’ hand in a vice-grip, “Tell them I helped you- tell them!”_

_But he was dragged from the room. The, well d’Artagnan wasn’t sure who was marching him, the man had bundled him into the back of a van and from there to his holding cell._

That had must have been around two days ago.

Two days of nothing. No one had spoken to him, no one had entered his cell. Nothing. He supposed Athos was dead, that his friends were just biding their time before they exacted their revenge. Maybe that was why the Captain had requested he be housed separately, so they could arrange and ‘accident’ should their friend not pull through. Maybe they’d even make it look like a suicide… But then why go to that much trouble?

He was an illegal immigrant. No passport, no drivers license, hell even no birth certificate… No one to miss him. Rochefort wouldn’t care. Constance would, but she was probably half way back to Ukraine by now... They could make him disappear and no one would be there to miss him. Why make his death look like an accident or suicide when they could just take his cut up body and throw it in the Seine?

Would they make him suffer? d’Artagnan wouldn’t blame them. He got their friend killed, he’d delayed the rescue for his own selfish reasons. What if they’d gotten there 10 minutes earlier? Or 5? Or 1? Would it have made a difference?

Oh how d’Artagnan hated the ‘what if’ game. What if he and Constance had never come to France? What if they’d stayed in Ukraine or Russia? Or what if they’d come here legally, got themselves passports and visas and made it without Rochefort’s ‘help’?

He’d never know… That was the most frustrating part. d’Artagnan was perfectly aware of just how successfully he had fucked up his life. All the ‘what if’s just proved that.

The iron of the heavy cell door creaked and d’Artagnan’s head shot up. At first he thought it was just the slot for food but then the whole door swung out. The boy scrambled off the bed, his back pressed up against the cold wall. His hands, unsure of what else to do, balled themselves into fists as a man walked through the door.

In an expensive, pressed navy suit, crisp white shirt and dress shoes, it took d’Artagnan a moment to recognise Athos. His hair was neatly combed and his beard had been trimmed. Of course there were still bruises on his face, a shadow of dark skin under his eye and along his jaw. His right arm wasn’t in his suit jacket, instead wrapped tightly in a sling close to his chest.

Battered, yes, but alive… He was alive!

d’Artagnan waited for the man to speak, to shout, anything, but he just stepped to the side to allow another man through.

The man with the glare. The man who’d been called _Captain_.

The man’s eyebrow arched as he gave d’Artagnan the once over. The intense glare sent a shiver down the boys spine, an odd suspicion he was being weighed, measured.

“You’re sure?” The Captain asked without taking his eyes from the young man.

Athos nodded. He stood in his at ease position, feet shoulder width apart and good arm behind his back. He looked as if he didn’t even _notice_ his own cast.

“Without hesitation.”

“Well then,” The Captain nodded, “I suggest you both follow me.” He turned and swept from the room, expecting the pair to follow.

Athos inclined his head to the open door, “After you.”

d’Artagnan swallowed. He didn’t know what he was walking into, perhaps they’d allowed Athos choose the punishment for his crime. Anything could be waiting out there. But, he realised, it wasn’t like he had a choice.

His feet felt like lead as he exited his cell and followed the Captain into a room opposite. It was an interview room, bare and cold with a table and two chairs. The older man took one and nodded to the other, indicating d’Artagnan should follow suit. Athos took up a place behind the Captain. If he was in pain, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

“Do you know who I am, Charles?”

 _Charles…_ d’Artagnan supressed a flinch and shook his head.

“My name is Jean Treville, but most around here call me Captain. I run an organisation called The Musketeers.”

“Like… The police?” d’Artagnan guessed but the man, Treville, shook his head.

“I suppose, in a way perhaps. Many of my men I found in the police, others the army, air-force, a range of places. I collect men - and women of course - from the top of their field who possess very specific skill sets. We do work for the government, but directly for the Prime Minister and his council, outside the police and other law enforcement agencies. Our aim is to protect the values of France and all of its inhabitants from a variety of different threats. When we do our jobs correctly, no one needs to know of our existence.”

d’Artagnan’s eyes flickered from Treville’s face up to Athos, but he was looking firmly straight ahead. Athos was part of this? Why hadn’t he said? If he had all these skills why hadn’t he killed Charles back in that celler and walked out of that cell?

“Do you understand, Charles?”

The boy nodded, his eyes sliding back to the man in front of him.

“Yes, Sir. But I don’t understand why you are telling me this…”

“A fair question,” Treville admitted. He reached into a bag under the table and pulled out a piece of paper. He slid it across to d’Artagnan, who frowned down at the sheet.

“Do you read French, Charles?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, “A bit… Not so much.”

“This is a contract. I’ll paraphrase, but can have a copy drawn up in… Ukrainian?”

“Russian,” d’Artagnan corrected. Part of the reason he had been so desperate to leave Ukraine, with anti-Russian feeling on the rise, he couldn’t guarantee Constance’s safety.

“Russian then. But the essence is simple. This contract is for an apprenticeship, to study directly under one high ranking Musketeer for a period of one year. If, at the end of that time you meet the required level, you will be offered a full commission into the Musketeers’ ranks.”

d’Artagnan blinked, his eyes fixed on the contract in front of him. A breath caught in his throat. He must have misheard, misunderstood… Or this was a joke, some cruel prank before the real revenge began.

“What?”

Treville slid the contract away from d’Artagnan, forcing his gaze back up to his own, “You will be our first ‘apprentice’ of sorts, I admit it is not how things here are usually done, however I have been assured your character is one worthy of our brotherhood, if your skills need time to catch up.”

d’Artagnan’s head spun, attempting to take in all the information at once.

“Assured? But who - ?”

But Treville held up a hand, silencing the boy. Once he obeyed the Captain continued.

“There are three conditions within the contract. First you are to assist in the prosecution of Marc Rochefort and Thomas de La _Fère_. You are to cooperate fully with our lawyers, which may include testifying at trial.”

d’Artagnan nodded, in a daze.

“Second, you are to cut off all times with the Guard. If you are found to be with communicating with anyone from your old life, so much as a poke on Facebook, you will be in breach of the contract and steps will have to be taken accordingly.”

Constance… All contact. The rest of them? d’Artagnan wouldn’t offer them a second thought… But Constance…

Treville didn’t wait for an agreement. He just carried on.

“Third…”He reached again into the bag by the table and withdrew a slim maroon book. He tossed it in front of the boy. d’Artagnan looked from the man to the book, slightly warily, and picked it up. Gold lettering picked out words on the front cover. Most of it didn’t mean much to the boy, but one word stood out.

d’Artagnan, with shaking fingers, flicked the little book open to the photo page and there he was, staring back at him.

“d’Artagnan de Lupiac…” d’Artagnan read, finger tracing the words to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, “French Citizen.”

“All Musketeers are French citizens,” Treville leaned forward, elbows resting on the table and his fingers together, “I’m afraid, in order to sign the contract, you need to accept French citizenship.”

There was a lump in the boy’s throat the size of his fist. French citizen. He’d lived ever since he came to France in fear of his illegal status and now there it was. A passport.

A French citizen.

But…

It took a great deal of effort to release the passport from his hands, as if it would be snatched away at any moment, but it wasn’t so simple. d’Artagnan swallowed, his eyes glancing up nervously at the Captain. He didn’t seem impatient for a decision, in fact he seemed passive, content to give the boy all the time you needed.

“I… Sir this is more than I could ever hope for but, my fiancée, she was in The Silver Room during the –“

“Aah,” Treville arched an eyebrow, “There’s always a girl.”

He tossed another book onto the table, the familiar gold lettering glinting in the overhanging light.

“Is,” d’Artagnan chocked out, “Is that…”

A smirk slid onto the Captain’s face, “Should check it, shouldn’t you?”

His hands shook as he fumbled to find the photograph page. It took him far longer than it should, but he finally made it to the information. There she was. Constance wasn’t smiling, but it was her. Wild dark red hair and bright eyes.

“Constance de Lupiac.” d’Artagnan read from the page, the same surname dripping of his tongue.

“We had to marry you, apologies,” Treville didn’t look sorry, “Marriage licences can be tricky things, of course there is nothing to stop you having a ceremony…”

d’Artagnan’s eyes were still glued to Constance’s photo. How long had it been since he’d seen her? 2 weeks? Felt like 2 months, hell 2 years.

“Where is she? Can I see her?”

“Soon,” Treville nodded, “She was taken to the detention centre with the other women we found in The Silver Room. They’re all being held there until citizenship and country of origin can be determined.”

d’Artagnan felt his head nodding, barely aware as the Captain began packing up the papers round him. Gently he eased Constance’s new passport from his grasp.

“I cannot in good conscience have you sign a contract you cannot read.”

Finally, d’Artagnan looked up. Trevielle met his gaze, “So until I translate that into Russian, we will have a verbal agreement. Are you interested in the apprenticeship? Are my terms agreeable?”

And there it was. The offer. This wasn’t a joke, wasn’t a farce. A new life on a silver platter and he had to do was…

“Yes,” d’Artagnan’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed and tried again, “Yes they are.”

“Excellent,” Treville stood, brushing his hands down his suit trousers, “In which case I will leave you in the capable hands of your mentor. I believe you’ve met…”

He turned, a hand settling on Athos’ good arm. The man offered a smile at his commander, who returned a smaller version.

“Once or twice. Thank you, Captain.”

Treville turned back, nodded once more to d’Artagnan, and slipped from the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

The silence was, all of a sudden, defining. d’Artagnan’s eyes found Athos, still standing in position. There was so much to ask, so much to say, but when the boy opened his mouth nothing came out. He wanted apologise, and thank him, and ask a hundred questions all at once. Where to start? d’Artagnan ran a hand through his hair.

“I…”

“We should start with your reading,” Athos stepped forward and sat in the newly vacated seat, clearly planning to get down to business, “Then there will be rifflery and hand to hand combat, the basics. I may have Aramis and Porthos put you through your paces until this blasted thing comes off. Perhaps-“

“Why?”

Athos frowned. His hand reached up to shift his cast, carefully shifting it to a more comfortably position, “Well I can hardly throw you around on the mats right now.”

“That’s not what I-“

“You meant, I know…” Athos sighed, leaning back in his chair as he watched the young man in front of him, “I assume you worked out who was behind my abduction?”

d’Artagnan swallowed and nodded, “I… I heard most of what was said. Rochefort had me guarding the door… La _Fère_ was you brother?”

Athos nodded, “My younger brother, only 14 months between us. We lost our father during our teenage years, our mother suffered a break down and never truly recovered. Instead of being there for him like I should have I decided to do my very best to raise my life to the ground. Thomas got caught up in the hurricane and ended up paying the price. It was an accident, I sent him to do a job for me. He got caught with my drugs and got 7 years for it.”

Athos paused, his good hand running along his trimmed beard. d’Artagnan could see the creases in the older man’s face, the pain in his eyes. After everything that happened, after how close he’d come to death, he was still plagued with guilt.

“After his trial I hit rock bottom. Thomas wouldn’t return my calls, my letters, wouldn’t attend my visits. My so called friends had abandoned me, realising I no longer had any drugs for them. I was alone, so I turned to the only thing that had comforted me in the past, alcohol and pills.”

An uncomfortable feeling crept up the boy’s spine. It seemed impossible, that the strong, stoic man on the other side of the table could bend so far…

“I almost died. I would have if it wasn’t for the Captain.”

d’Artagnan frowned, “Treville?”

Athos nodded, “The man served with my father. Came round to the family home and found me past out in the basement surrounded by wine bottles and an empty canister of pills. He shoved his fingers down my throat until I threw up the contents of my stomach. Without the Captain I’d be nothing but a grave stone. He packed a bag for me that night and moved me into his spare room, cared for me through a detox and then slapped me round the head for being so bloody reckless.”

The man chuckled at the memory. d’Artagnan wasn’t so sure he’d be laughing, roles reversed.

“I lived there for 6 months in all, before Treville suggested I get a fresh start. He helped me change my name, and wrote me a reference for when I applied to the army. I served for 12 years in all before I was offered a commission in the Musketeers. Now I’m here.”

As the story came to an end d’Artagnan felt himself nod. He opened his mouth but Athos carried on.

“The only reason I’m here today, not dead in the ground, is because that man didn’t give up on me and gave me a chance…”

His eyes fixed the young man with a look, cool blue eyes taking in the youth’s face. d’Artagnan exhaled a long breath. It all fell into place.

“The same chance you’re going to give me…”

Athos nodded.

“I couldn’t save Thomas when we were kids and he wouldn’t let me save him as adults. But I can save you, d’Artagnan. If you’re willing to accept help.”

Help… Help was for the weak, that’s what d’Artagnan had been told. The last time he’d accepted an offer which seemed too good to be true he had ended up in debt to Rochefort, working for a man he loathed in order to keep the woman he loved safe.

But this was different. This was a new chance.

d’Artagnan swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling thick and fuzzy, “Thank you, Athos.”

“Is my pleasure,” The man got to his feet, and indicated that d’Artagnan should do the same, “That doesn’t mean I won’t work you hard. One year to get your skills to the standard of the Musketeers won’t be easy. I need your commitment. You’ll hate me at points, might even wish you’d told me where I could stick that contract. But you are more than capable of this d’Artagnan. I have every faith in you.”

Athos led the pair out into the hall way and up a nearby stair case. It was amazing, d’Artagnan relented, that the man in front of his didn’t show any pain. He had witnessed those beatings. His ribs, his arm... Any normal man would still be on bed rest.

But clearly, Athos was no normal man.

They stopped in front of a door and Athos shot a glance over his shoulder, “Ready?”

d’Artagnan straightened his back and took in a deep breath, “yea.”

“Well then,” The door swung open and Athos strode through. The large room was a hive of activity, men and women milling around everywhere. Some in clothes which wouldn’t look out of place in an office, suits and ties and shirts and high heels. But some wore black combats and heavy boots with guns strapped about their shoulders and hips. Around the edge of the room were a dozen doors, each with a roman numeral etched into the wood. Athos led them through the mill of people quickly, nodding politely to people who offered their welcome backs and get well soons, to the door etched with the number 2. He slid it open easily, revealing a ruckus amount of laughter inside.

“You’re lyin’, Aramis. No chance. That’s your bullshit face!”

“You wound me. All these years you still don’t trust me?”

“Wit’ my life? Yea? But your stories? Nah.”

Athos stepped into the room and cleared his throat. d’Artagnan followed nervously, the smaller room coming into view. It was a good space, a window over looking the street two stories below. Four desks were positioned around the room, all facing inwards so the occupants could see each other. Two of the chairs were filled; Aramis and Porthos looked up. A smile split Aramis’ tanned face as he stood, darting round the edge of the desks and bundled Athos into a hug. The man made a few disgruntled noises but didn’t seem to protest too much.

“Grumpy Cat, welcome back!” Aramis’ eyes caught d’Artagnan’s over Athos’ shoulder. The smile didn’t fade exactly, but an eyebrow definitely arched as he drew back, “Picking up strays, Athos?”

“Got himself a pet,” Porthos snorted, kicking up his legs onto the edge of his desk.

“Grumpy Cat got himself a pup!”

Athos used his good hand to draw d’Artagnan to his side, “You get used to the nicknames, don’t bother fighting them,” he murmured close to his ear before he addressed the room.

“Gentlemen, I believe you met d’Artagnan while I was otherwise engaged?”

“Something like that,” Porthos muttered, eyes sliding between his friend’s face and the newcomer, “Aramis pointed a gun at him… that’s a kind of meeting, righ’?”

Athos shook his head, sure he would be filled in on that story later, “Well in that case I suppose I should do proper introductions. d’Artagnan meet Aramis Herblay and Porthos du Vallon, two of the most loyal men you will ever have the good fortune of serving beside. They, along with myself and now you, make up unit two of our organisation.”

If the news of d’Artagnan’s arrival was a surprise the pair didn’t show it. Porthos nodded and Aramis offered a wave. d’Artagnan supposed there were far worse reactions. Athos placed a hand on the small of his back. A gentle, subtle gesture of _I’m right here, beside you._

“Welcome, d’Artagnan, to the Musketeers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you liked it! I'm currently loving this AU so am thinking about delving into it in some one shots.... Would people be interested in that?


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